


A Twist in the Brandywine

by ThatSassyCaptain



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Friendships, Family Trees Matter but Timelines Do Absolutely Not, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gen, Hobbit Culture & Customs, I'm Not the Expert, Inspired by The Hobbit, Movie-Book blend, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overprotective Dwarves, Parental Bilbo Baggins, Poor Bilbo, Warnings in Chapter Notes as Needed, We play fast and loose with canon, Young Frodo Baggins, all due respect to what's Proper Tolkien or Canon or Etc. but this is a fun AU for fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29664048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSassyCaptain/pseuds/ThatSassyCaptain
Summary: After a good deal of timeline fudging, Frodo Baggins is born to Drogo and Primula Baggins (née Brandybuck) before a certain Thirteen Dwarves and One Wizard set in motion a quest to reclaim Erebor. Needless to say, they are not pleased with the events cherry-picked from canon or the ones that are completely AU.A tongue-in-cheek summary for a seriously-treated AU where Bilbo and Frodo Baggins find themselves tagging along on the road to the Lonely Mountain. Includes plenty of fluff, h/c, and Angst But In A General Audiences Way.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Frodo Baggins, Bilbo Baggins & Thorin's Company, Drogo Baggins & Frodo Baggins & Primula Brandybuck, Drogo Baggins/Primula Brandybuck, Frodo Baggins & Thorin's Company
Kudos: 12





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this for well over three years, and now the inspiration/plot fixes have arrived. I'm going to attempt weekly/bi-monthly updates if only to force myself to write.

Drogo Baggins, as it was said of him by dear friends and relations, was the very best sort of hobbit. He was decent, respectable, a lover of food, but most of all passionate about family. It had been little surprise then, to those who knew him, when he came of age and promptly asked permission to court one Primula Brandybuck. And to all who knew him less well it still seemed a good match at any rate. 

After all, Drogo was the very best sort of hobbit. He was respectable and from a good family above all, as should befit a suitor of the daughter of the Master of Buckland. And all the adoring maids from Crickhollow to Stock whispered of his proper roundness and fine feet. 

Though it should be said that Primula Brandybuck, only thirty-six-months-and-counting from majority herself, saw other qualities in Drogo Baggins than these. She’d been described by her peers in Buckland as a bit snobbish perhaps, but as respectable a lass as the Brandybucks had in their number. Primula was practical perhaps to a fault and quite skilled at getting her way. She could have her pick of suitors and gotten them easily enough. But she readily accepted the suit from Drogo (by word of her father, of course, as is proper) with an eagerness that confused her closer friends. 

To Primula Brandybuck, for all practical purposes, Drogo Baggins would have been an average quality catch. That is not to demean the standing and character of Drogo, but he was far enough removed from being The Baggins one day that another Bolger or Bracegirdle would do just as nicely. But Primula, as it was said, saw something in him beyond respectability or property. In a very uncharacteristic move, she followed her heart. 

And so in a match that had some hobbits nodding sagely and others shaking their heads in confusion, Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck engaged in their thirty-seven-month-courtship and were married with blessings from both their families. It was a large wedding as Shire weddings always are. Innumerable cousins and relations from both sides turned up, as well as friends and well-wishers of all sorts. There was feasting and merriment befitting such a lovely and respectable couple. 

For those were the things that hobbits valued in society above all others: respectability and tradition. Other qualities of goodness and high morals were lauded of course, but societal norms were rather easier to gauge. And those who fell out of them, if only occasionally or only for a time, were easier to remark upon as well. 

Those who were prone to remark thought it odd, if admirable, how warmly Drogo embraced his strangest cousin and how heartily he thanked Bilbo for attending. Primula did more than expected as well. The tea set he had gifted them was hardly extravagant for The Baggins of Bag End to supply, yet they grinned at him with hardly a mention of it. 

Those who knew Drogo and Primula Baggins less well thought them overly polite. But, the eyes of their very favorite cousin saw past the society fronts and past even the flaws unique in every being that they sought to hide from others. He saw their kind hearts just as they saw his. Though a gap of five-and-ten-odd years separated them, there were hardly closer cousins in all the Shire. Every invitation was received with joy. Every dinner was treasured, as were the birthdays, fair-days, holidays, and one very special day in the middle. 

No son or second-cousin-once-removed in all the Shire was loved more (and of course very few did love theirs less) than the young Frodo Baggins was by Drogo, Primula, and ‘Uncle Bilbo’. It was a ways from Bag End to Brandy Hall, but as Bilbo was agreed to be a strange sort he made the trip regularly and without complaint, claiming it to be hardly as far as he’d ever gone on walking holiday anyhow. Frodo was spoiled by relatives up and down the Brandywine too, but even so young he branded Uncle Bilbo his favorite. The Tooks scattered among the Brandybucks considered this half a win. Any grandson of the Old Tooks was Took enough for them stacked up against the Brandybucks, even if their Took was a Baggins. 

And so it came to pass in those first years after Frodo Baggins’ birth that Bilbo took to making regular trips to Brandy Hall and Buckland beyond. The keys to Bag End were entrusted to the young but sensible Hamfast Gamgee and instructions that it should go to Drogo and Primula should Bilbo be set upon by wolves or brigands on the road. Hamfast was displeased even by the notion that such a thing should befall Master Baggins, but he gave his word it would be done. Bilbo, laughing, would take his leave and depart once again for Buckland or Bree. 

As the snowball that dislodges the snowbank that tumbles itself down as an avalanche into a rushing river ready to flood its banks leaves a farmer miles downstream with waterlogged fields, so did this twist of fate bring a great deal of change to a great many places. 


	2. Back from Bree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins arrives in Buckland on his return trip from Bree, but not in the manner he'd planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: none

“Bilbo, love, look up.”

“Really, Cousin, I am fine-”

“You should listen to Prim, Bilbo.” Drogo reentered the room with some fresh washcloths and a spare roll of bandage. “Half her brothers are Bounders you know, and she almost let them make her one too.” This was only half in jest, as Primula had exceptional common sense- a desired trait for any Bounder- as well as a quick wit and good eye. Her brothers had gotten their Mother’s Tookish love of adventure and made excellent Buckland Bounders. They had tried to talk Primula into it but she wouldn’t budge. Some might’ve said a certain respectable Baggins caught her eye and she needed to stay in town to make sure he didn’t get away. 

So it was that Primula knew a thing or two about first aid. She insisted on Bilbo not being poked in the eye with a wet washcloth, no matter how his motion might indicate a wish for the contrary. 

“You’ve been lucky, Bilbo.” Primula dipped the cloth back in the basin and ignored his huff. “You’re lucky they were in the mood for throwing you around instead of killing you outright!”

That quiteded down his wordless sounds of discontent. Still, his pride was as wounded as the rest of him. “Throwing me around! I’m lucky I didn’t take a tumble off a taller staircase. You know-” he switched quickly to a more serious tone, “-that some of those ruins on the East Road have been abandoned for an age? Since the fall of the lost Kingdom of Arnor, and they were using it to… ambush… weary... scholars- Drogo have you put on some weight or am I seeing double?”

At this Primula rolled her eyes and Drogo laughed. “Thank you for noticing, dear Cousin, but I am afraid I’m not yet up to enough to make you think there were two of me. Perhaps when I am an old, respectable great-grandfather I will achieve it. But once Prim is through with you, you really should lie down. Such a thrashing as you’ve taken is no jest!”

Bilbo hummed tersely and Primula snatched his face back before he could make a rebuttal. “You have two more scrapes to go and I’m sure you feel them. Then you can rest. We’ll see if there’s aught else hurting in the morning.”

“A full night’s sleep then?” Bilbo murmured around the washcloth. “Frodo’s settled has he?”

“For some time now, luckily.” Drogo said amicably. He tried not to crowd his cousin, but stood comfortably close to distract him. “Of course, he’s up and about the rest of the time. I’m surprised all the hubbub didn’t wake him. Goodness knows he’ll be raring to play with you or his thousand-odd Brandybuck cousins once he’s up, no matter the present hour.”

Bilbo smiled softly as he always did when discussing his favorite nephew. Though truly Frodo was his second cousin once removed, no one could expect a faunt to remember that, let alone one who had such a prodigious volume of first-cousins already. Bilbo positively doted on the lad. Trinkets from his mathom collection, toys from Hobbiton and Stock and Bywater and now Bree, as well as stories to rival any bard of the Shire’s were certain every time Bilbo came by. 

“I brought something for him.” Bilbo said quietly. “A felt toy of an animal I have never seen in life. The wandering merchant said it was a salamander- a type of flightless dragon I take it- and that the scales on a real one were fireproof. I imagine Frodo will not be told this last bit until he’s old enough to-- dear me, I hope it made it back into the bag.”

Sensing Bilbo’s misplaced urgency, Drogo waved him off and went to fetch the pack from the kitchen. His poor cousin had been in a state when he turned up at Brandy Hall in the dead of night. Those Tookish traveling feet of his had managed to steer him to the right doorway. Drogo and Primula had been up from the sofa at once, abandoning their fireside reading to tend to him. How he’d actually managed the feat upright was beyond them.

So without waking all of Brandy Hall, they took him in and Prim had started fussing over him. It didn’t look like anything that needed a proper healer or a herbalist for. Between them, they’d set Bilbo up comfortably and manage to keep him out of the eagle eye of the Buckland gossip circle. Goodness knows how Bilbo was torn between traveling and respectability. Both meant enough to him for Drogo and Primula to exchange a silent nod and get to scheming. 

Of course, he’d never been set upon by brigands on a walking holiday before. They were fairly sure he’d been to Bree once, perhaps just out of his tweens, but they were both too young to be certain. Bilbo’s visits from those days were mostly to Drogo, and more seldom than now. But now that they had him back they were going to take care of him. Bilbo had been orphaned long ago and left without siblings or anyone. Drogo and Primula took it upon themselves then to stand in the gap. 

Bilbo was half asleep when Drogo returned with the satchel. Prim hummed in response to whatever he was murmuring, but he was keeping still. The satchel might bring him a degree of comfort anyhow. It was far more important that their cousin had returned to them alive, but Bilbo took such joy in showing off his mathoms and souvenirs from his travels. 

“It’s in here, Cousin.” Drogo fished out the oddly-shaped felt creature. It was sort of like a gecko, only with a tall body and a little head. Whatever this salad-minder was, it was an unusual thing to be sure. At any rate, Bilbo seemed to relax a little more in his chair. 

“It’s a relief. The other things… well, I can rewrite notes and cook new food… But I did so hope this would make it back for Frodo.” He yawned and winced all at once as he stretched some of his scrapes. 

Primula had long since perfected her mother’s patented glare, but gave the gentler version to Bilbo. “Straight to bed with you, Cousin. We have the guest room fitted out and ready for you. Drogo’s made up his mind to make buttermilk pancakes the moment you stopped by, so we’ll have those for breakfast.” The pair of them helped their dear cousin to his feet. 

“I can walk on my own, Cousin. Cousin.” Bilbo did his best to look capable and patient, but Drogo and Primula were having none of it. They escorted him to his room and made sure he was settled. Then Primula took care of repacking the first aid kid while Drogo took the wash things to soak in a clean basin of soapy water. Once the house was sorted, the pair of them tiptoed to check in on Frodo before retiring for the night. It was late in Buckland, but their little family was safe under their roof once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello thank you for joining the adventure


	3. Breakfast and the Naming of a Salamander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baggins extended family has Second Breakfast. Mild chaos ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None?

Any breakfast in the Shire should be a splendid affair. Hobbits pride themselves on being both exceptional hosts and exceptional cooks. This cultural cornerstone greatly benefits a late night arrival, who is given ample time to sleep but will still be guaranteed a hearty meal. 

The young faunt, Frodo, was given instructions not to wake their guest. Eager though the lad was, he could occupy himself in a few outdoor or quiet games until his favorite Uncle awoke. And so when Bilbo’s stomach finally saw fit to wake him he found the living room empty. He’d half expected Frodo to dive upon the bed with the first rays of the sun. But it seemed his second-cousin-once-removed had found a way to obey his parents and occupy his time to his satisfaction. 

“Morning Drogo, morning Prim.” Bilbo said as he entered the dining room. There was an ache about his ribs and up into his shoulders, which had made getting dressed more difficult than expected. Still, he was a perfectly respectable hobbit and had managed well on his own. No doubt the more vocal aches and pains were from when he’d been tossed back and forth amongst the brigands like a doll in a mean-spirited game of keep-away. One blossoming bruise he’d spotted in the guest bedroom mirror was certainly from falling down that flight of stairs. He was not in fact grateful for the rock that caught his shoulder-blade on the landing and had told it as much at the time.

Drogo smiled from the door to the kitchen proper where he was hoisting a stack of pancakes onto a larger platter. “Morning, Cousin. You’re a little after Second Breakfast, but the cook’s not sat down yet. If there’s aught you’re after that’s not on the table, I can have it out in no time at all.”

Primula was busy pulling out a cushioned chair and herding Bilbo into it. “You’re welcome to the whole pantry, Cousin. We didn’t know when you would arrive exactly, so we’ve been keeping a bit of everything on hand. Frodo has delighted in the prep work, and has saved a scone in particular for you.”

“Has he now?” Bilbo got himself settled and began spooning scrambled eggs onto his plate. “I take it he’s got your head for pastries already!”

Primula laughed. “Not so much as he has pastry dough _on_ his head, in his hair, even on the curls of his feet, silly faunt. But he did take great care not to drop your scone, and he stood guard by the oven when that batch baked. He might take more after Drogo in that respect.”

Sensing he was being teased, her husband reappeared from the kitchen with a great array of jams and marmalades. “Say what you like, Primula my love, but I will have you know my Seventeen-Blueberry muffins took second prize at the Great Buckland Bake. Second, I might add, only to your mother’s Blueberry Buckle pound cake, which you simply must inherit the recipe for.”

That had the desired effect of dissolving his audience into giggles. In between breaths Bilbo managed to inquire, “Seventeen… blueberries, Drogo? Why Seventeen?”

Now Drogo was tugging off his apron and getting seated next to his wife. “Why Cousin, it’s simply the perfect number of blueberries-per-muffin for my recipe. Don’t go spreading this around, but it’s the batter that determines the best number.” Bilbo was biting his lip to keep from laughing again, but he nodded along as Drogo finished. “And I went through batters and batches from ten to twenty before I got the mix right.”

Primula nodded as well and sipped her tea. “We were positively swimming in blueberries for weeks.”

“Hopefully a multiple of seventeen.” Bilbo said. “And there is something to be said for the Buckland blueberry over, say, the Tuckborough variety. But don’t tell any of the Took cousins I said that. They’ll be sure to jump in about their superior grains soon enough.”

“I think,” Drogo replied, very seriously still on the topic of blueberries, “it’s something to do with how close we are to the Brandywine. Now, Brady Hall’s more than a stone’s throw from the river, certainly… But, Tuckborough’s quite a ways inland, isn’t it?”

Both Primula and Bilbo exchanged a look before returning to their breakfast. Far be it from ordinary hobbits to try and fathom the depth and technical finesse required in the cultivation of a proper blueberry. Seeing as Drogo was still in fine spirits over the discussion, it was decided that they’d fared well overall. There had been no discussion of the Bolgers down the way and how their prize crop was doing. A perfectly civil Second Breakfast. 

And as no hobbit truly missed a meal, though they may find themselves distracted enough to delay one from time to time, it was not long before young Frodo made his appearance. Only, the faunt didn’t turn up in the manner Bilbo had expected. The front door opened, and in floated Frodo, held aloft by a much older child. Bilbo didn’t know the lass’ name, but she was a Brandybuck sure as anything, and he was certain he’d know her parents. 

“Uncle Bilbo!”

“Morning Mrs. Prim, Mr. Drogo...” The girl said, depositing the wriggling Frodo in Bilbo’s outstretched arms. “...Mr. Baggins, sir. He’d wandered out in front of the Hall again, and I think he was trying to eat Mrs. Mirabella’s peonies. Folco was watching him though, and he told me what you told him about Second Breakfast, but then his sister started yelling at him from down the hill and we thought it best for me to bring Frodo back instead.”

She got her tale out about as quickly as she could. Bilbo was trying not to wince as Frodo crawled all over his bruises, but it seemed the young Brandybuck girl was eager to be back to whatever she was doing before taking charge.

“And very well you did, Lily.” Drogo inclined his head in thanks. “Why don’t you take a scone or three for your trouble?”

“Not Bilbo’s scone!” Frodo cried from his perch. 

“Worry not, my young chef, Bilbo’s scone is still on your plate in the pantry. Lily dear, take any you like here and Frodo I’ll help you fetch it.”

This Lily Brandybuck gave the room a curtsey before stuffing the offered scones in the pockets of her dress and running back out of the smial. Bilbo gave Primula a questioning look. 

“Young Folco Bolger’s appointed himself Frodo’s guardian out-of-doors. I think Lily’s sweet on him, and one or the other or both usually has an eye on our little terror.” She rearranged the scone stack to a level of dignity as Bilbo returned to his eggs. Moments later, Drogo returned carrying Frodo and a single blue ceramic plate. 

“I made you a scone, Uncle Bilbo! All by myself!” Frodo’s feet waggled for the floor and Drogo rolled his eyes good-naturedly. All present knew full well Frodo had likely done little more than shape the dough or spoon add-ins, but his culinary parade would not be rained upon. 

Bilbo took the plate from Drogo as Frodo scrambled back up into his lap. He managed to muffle most of a wince. “All this for me? Why Nephew, surely you don’t mean this scone! This must be the one you’re saving for the Spring Bake.” Frodo giggled, and Bilbo spent several moments praising the various qualities of the scone, from the texture to the color to the shape. At last, he took a bite. His hand promptly flew to his heart and he delayed only long enough to swallow before speaking again. “No, no, this must have been the prize-winning scone. I’m so sorry to have robbed you of your ribbon but it is a delight! Raspberry and almond chips- surely no other chef in Buckland could have pulled it off so well! Thank you very much Frodo. I fear I shall never eat another scone like it again…”

By this time, the lad was laughing outright. “Don’t be so silly! It’s just a scone, Uncle Bilbo! I can make some more, if Dad helps me with the oven again.”

“We could make some more again tonight, dear love,” Primula said, “after our surprise. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Frodo’s eyes grew even wider, and he smacked his hands over his mouth to suppress another giggle. Or, perhaps, to keep a secret…

“Surprise, Cousin?” Bilbo asked with put-upon innocence, “You’re having a surprise, and you didn’t tell me?”

Primula and Drogo exchanged conspiratorial glances. This time it was Drogo who continued, “You were so very tired yesterday, Cousin, that we thought it best to let you sleep. We know how some faunts in these parts toss and turn in anticipation of a good surprise…”

Frodo was nearly bouncing with delight, but he kept his hands where they were. Clearly, the nature of the surprise was too exciting to spoil. 

“Once Old Uncle Bilbo-” Drogo ignored his cousin’s scowl, “-has had his nap, we’ll all head off to the surprise.”

“After his nap!” Frodo cried in dismay, “But it’s only Second Breakfast now, and we don’t nap until after Luncheon!” 

Obviously much was presumed in this ‘we’ he spoke of, but Bilbo had to admit he’d be tired enough for a nap come that time. He was half sore enough to think of trying it now. Instead he did his best to reassure his young nephew. 

“Don’t you worry, Frodo my lad, we’ll have so much fun you’ll barely notice it before the nap’s come and gone. In fact, once we’re done eating I have a nice surprise of my own for you.” 

The rest of Second Breakfast passed in a flurry of excited questions, various tales, and praise for the exquisite spread. Since all save Bilbo had been awake for the first meal, they finished rather more swiftly and as such took most of the tale-telling burden upon themselves. During the surprise, Primula insisted, they would have all the time in the world for Bilbo’s stories. 

Frodo took it upon himself to regale his uncle with the tale of his first ride on the Buckleberry Ferry while his parents saw to the dishes. 

“There were Men, Uncle Bilbo!” the lad said, his eyes wide and sparkling, “Men with big horses, bigger than any pony I’ve ever seen! I forget the Men’s names, but their horses were Windmane and Peaches! And the older Man was teasing the younger one so much for naming his horse Peaches, but I think it’s a good name!”

“Peaches is a wonderful name, Frodo. I hope you told them so.”

“I did!” Frodo nodded eagerly. “And I told them Mr. Odo’s pony was named Strawberry, so there are plenty of fruit horses in the Shire and Peaches won’t have to be self-... self-con-sess.”

Bilbo nodded once. “How right you are! My, when did you become so grown-up and sensible? I daresay before long you’ll be giving sage advice to all the faunts in Buckland, and the Master will have you up to the Hall to help him write all sorts of laws and do paperwork-”

Frodo protested this, sticking his tongue out and wriggling once more from Bilbo’s lap. His poor uncle managed to dodge an elbow to the ribs, but Frodo landed on his scratched toe before scampering away. Ever the respectable hobbit, Bilbo bit back a phrase neither Primula nor Aunt Mirabella would take kindly to Frodo learning. Eventually he was able to get up. It was not a far walk to the guest room and back. By the time Bilbo returned, Frodo was marching back and forth on the rug, declaring his intent to never work and play forever. 

“Then I have just the thing for you, Nephew!” Bilbo returned his attention to the surprise at hand. “Behold, a creature from the far away and mysterious north-west… descended from dragons and with scales that change from cool to hot so they can swim in icy lakes and sulfur pools alike… I present to you: the Salamander!”

Most of this was idle fanfare on his part, but Frodo hung on every word. When the felt lizard appeared, Frodo bounded over and accepted it from Bilbo’s hands with care. He turned the toy over and over to examine every feature. Tiny fingers ran over the fuzzy spots and slender tail before coming back to feel at the glassy button eyes. 

“She’s beautiful, Uncle Bilbo!” he said at last, “Thank you! What’s her name?”

Bilbo’s grin broadened and he saw Drogo and Primula smiling from the doorway to the dining room. “Well now, Frodo, she has been on a very long journey and waited without complaint to be named after she came into your care. You can name her whatever you wish.”

The lad’s face took on a concentrated frown as he pondered names for his new toy. The serious expression didn’t break when he asked, “What do people in the mis-serious-north-west name their salad-mandies?”

Primula’s lips had curled in with the effort of keeping quiet. Bilbo smiled and thought about this inquiry. “Well, there are a great deal of Rangers in those parts. I suppose they might name them after plants or use elvish names, as they are fond of doing. Or, you could name her anything you think suits her, like that nice Man who named his horse Peaches. I imagine Peaches suited the horse very well.”

After another long think, Frodo’s face took on a satisfied light. “I’m going to name her Bee.”

“Bee?” Bilbo repeated with some puzzlement. He glanced back at his cousins and found Drogo frowning in confusion while Primula seemed on the verge of exploding with mirth. “Bee is a lovely name, Frodo, tell us why you picked it.”

Frodo radiated innocence. “Because you said she came from dragons, and Grandpa Gorby said Aunt Bee is a dragon too!”

For a moment the dining room was silent. Bilbo remained smiling, perhaps more confused now than he had been a moment ago. Drogo cottoned onto it at last and with a snort managed to fill his cousin in. 

“Lo- _be-_ lia! He can’t say--”

Finally clued in, they all broke into laughter fit to shake Brandy Hall.


	4. A Very Brandybuck Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drogo and Primula and Frodo unveil their surprise. Bilbo is caught unawares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not think warnings apply for this chapter
> 
> Also, most of my knowledge of the relationship between places in the Shire (and Eriador at large) is influenced in equal parts by the Official Tolkien maps and by the environments in Lord of the Rings Online. A VERY detailed and involved world if you ever get the chance to try it out.

The rest of the morning passed in blissful companionship as the four Baggins’ caught up on each other’s doings and goings-on around the rest of the Shire. Even the dreaded post-Luncheon nap was looking fairly attractive by the time it rolled around. Bilbo relocated to the comfortable sofa after the meal and promptly fell asleep. Not to be outdone, Frodo joined him, and they awoke groggy but well-rested to the smell of pie. 

“Rise and shine, sleepyheads!” Primula leaned over the back of the couch. “We’ve got just about everything packed for the surprise.”

“Packed?” Bilbo squinted. “Packed for the surprise?”

“Yes, Cousin, it’s good to see your hearing isn’t going in your old age.”

Primula dodged a swinging pillow and scooped the laughing Frodo from the sofa. “Alright, dear heart, I promised you could help me put the jam into the little jars if you took your nap.”

“And I did!”

“And you did. Come along. Let’s wash your hands first while Old Uncle Bilbo gets himself sorted.”

‘Old Uncle Bilbo’ scowled mostly to himself. ‘Packed’ meant ‘going somewhere’ and ‘going somewhere’ meant ‘looking more presentable than one’s about-the-house outfit typically allows’. He caught Drogo’s assessing look from the dining room, as well as what looked like the side of a picnic basket. Well. Not bad as far as surprises went. Even if it did mean traipsing out-of-doors around Buckland. 

Bilbo stretched as his tender war-wounds allowed. The stiffness was starting to settle in now. He did not want to aggravate anything fragile, but he also knew a certain amount of stretching, paired with rest, would do wonders for it. A fair amount of the muscle aches came from the unexpected running and climbing, as well as the marathon walk through Newbury, Crickhollow, and finally up to Brandy Hall. It was more than a respectable hobbit would be up to. Though, there was a chance that the looks askance in Buckland might be more amused and tolerant than the critical and affronted ones of Hobbiton. 

All wool-gathering aside, Bilbo did still have to get dressed. It was early spring yet, and likely as anything to get chilly in the evening. Bilbo pondered the weather, the season, the lengthy but average winter, and the humidifying effects of the Brandywine on the climate of Buckland. All this considered, he selected a green waistcoat over his shirt, cream-colored wool cardigan, and his red traveling jacket which he slung over one arm just in case it was needed. The wool was warm and tolerant to the wet, just in case some mischievous Bucklander thought he’d fancy a swim. Bilbo did not, in fact, plan on going anywhere near the river, but recent travels had taught him to think ahead. 

Save for the healing scrapes on his face, he was perfectly presentable. No doubt if questioned, he could come up with a boring, bumbling, completely innocuous story about taking a tumble down his front steps. ‘After all’, he could imagine himself saying, ‘it’s not called the Hill for nothing. If you lived there, you’d keep a weather eye for loose stones when getting your mail too’. 

And hopefully Prim and Drogo could be relied upon not to embellish. Frodo had only asked once the whole day, and Bilbo had evasively informed him they were acquired in wrestling dear Bee’s seven sisters for the right to have her come along on the journey. After all, Salamanders were a jealous lot, and did not take kindly to the youngest and smallest having been picked ahead of the rest. Frodo, the youngest and smallest thing in the house at present, took great pride in his new kinship with his toy, and felt very appreciated for having been thought of. 

One day it might bother him that ‘telling tales’ came so easily to him. Bilbo could hardly see fault in embellishing to avoid meddlesome neighbors or to entertain his favorite nephew at the moment and let it lie. 

All in all, he was very much presentable when he re-entered the sitting room. Frodo was dressed not in his play-clothes but smartly and warmly in a shirt and pullover. Primula was holding jackets for the three of them, being of a like mind to Bilbo in regards to the weather. Drogo had his hands full with their picnic supplies and to Bilbo’s chagrin, a collapsible fishing rod. 

“There you are, Cousin!” he said with a grin, “Shall we be off for our surprise?”

Bilbo declined to add that it was hardly a surprise anymore. “I’m very ready, Cousin. Frodo, my lad, did you say something about jam earlier? I can’t imagine anything being quite as good as this morning’s scone, but you’ve gotten my hopes up once again.”

Frodo giggled on cue and held his hands up to be carried. Stuffing down any complaint from pains all over his body, Bilbo complied. He hoisted Frodo from the ground and settled the faunt on his shoulders. 

“I’m the tallest!” the lad declared. 

“That you are, my boy!” Prim made a show of looking up at him. “Now, you’ll have to be our lookout. You let us know when we’re at the perfect spot.”

Frodo gave a serious salute that had the grown-ups chuckling. With his task before him, Frodo directed the group out of the smial and into the roads of Buckland. They were nice roads, of course, but bustling with hobbits and friends and distant relations Bilbo was not keen on being put on display for. Brandybucks, Bolgers, Tunnellys, the odd Took, many of whom he was related to once or twice over… 

Drogo and Prim were looking smug again. He was about to huff in annoyance when Drogo steered them to a footpath that probably guided gardeners more than wandering society hobbits. It was a relief. Far be it from Bilbo to put on airs, or assume other hobbits would naturally take an interest in him… But he was _The_ Baggins, and grandson of the Old Took to boot. Gossip about old families was like straw on a roaring fire. And since the ‘good people’ of Hobbiton were already gossiping about his trips out of bounds, he might as well throw flour on the blaze and watch the whole thing explode. 

It may be unsociable of him, but he could not deny the classic Baggins desire to be about his business and his business alone. Some may call it fussiness, but Bilbo considered it a true and noble independence. He didn’t need rumors and hubbub to find enjoyment in life, thank you very much! And he certainly didn’t need- or want- to be the center of others’ hushed conversations as well. All he needed was his routine, his family, a little walking holiday or two to keep things exciting, and a foundation of good food to power it all on. 

But it was also time for Afternoon Tea. He hardly needed to worry. None of the hobbits of Buckland paid them much mind other than giving a wave to young Frodo and continuing on their way. As was often the case with hobbits bearing shopping baskets, their neighbors in the marketplace knew the food on hand was in finite supply. It was hardly the done thing to set upon a family with a picnic basket and a clear destination in mind. And it was also the height of rudeness to keep a hobbit from a meal. This stemmed back from a more ancient practice of vengeance where unwanted- yet still invited!- guests were stalled for hours with only the smell of food in the kitchens to sustain them. Hobbits as a whole had decided the practice was beyond the pale and frowned upon even the suggestion of it being done nowadays. 

So Bilbo was rather fortunate. Friends and relations- naturally- asked after him and his health in passing but the little party was hardly pounced on. And so they made their way down from Brandy Hall, past the (as yet) still untouched fairgrounds, and to Bilbo’s surprise, down further still from the Buckleberry Ferry. The ferryman gave Frodo a wave and Frodo waved back. 

It wasn’t long before they were starting to reach a more heavily treed area than Buckland proper. This was by no means part of the Old Forest, but they were not that far from the hedge in Bilbo’s reckoning. Still it was a lovely area. Trees readied their blossoms all around the path. The last claws of winter to be felt in the Shire had long since scraped past here. A few puddles dotted the area where rain had pooled. Grass shot up green and bright all around. 

“There, Mama, there!” Frodo called suddenly. Bilbo looked in the direction his tiny hands indicated. There was a twist in the Brandywine here, where a stretch of land jutted out seemingly into the river, with a few younger trees adorning the bank. It was almost a natural dock. There was more than enough grassy space for a picnic blanket, and whether or not he had any luck Drogo would certainly not lack comfort in this fishing spot. 

“Why Frodo, your sharp eyes have done us a favor again.” his father said brightly. Drogo hefted the picnic basket and started making for the spot, with Primula and Bilbo following behind. Frodo was released with strict instructions not to go near the water- not even to chase frogs- until he had an adult in his company. Said adults began the work of unpacking and setting up for the picnic. 

Bilbo alternated between wincing and scowling as his tasks pained him and then were promptly taken away. “Really, Drogo, I will be in no way injured by moving a pie!”

His dear cousins both tut-tutted him and Bilbo’s scowl only grew. “You’re our guest, Cousin.” Drogo explained. “We’d hardly have you in the kitchen with us helping set the table- not that we think you can’t, mind, or that we think you wouldn’t offer- but it’s both a pleasure and a duty to host you. You’ve never let us help with the place-mats or the silverware at Bag End.” He paused long enough to open and then hand Bilbo a jar of pickled melon. “So while you’re enjoying the pleasure of our company and doing us the great service of entertaining Frodo, we must insist you let us do this much for you.”

“Here here.” Primula chimed in. 

“Here here!” Frodo added, though by the look of his stance and handling of Bee he was more concerned with being a part of things than giving his assent. 

Bilbo was therefore hard-pressed to keep the scowl on his face. “Well…” he started, but no obvious argument was forthcoming, “...if you insist. Though I must insist in turn that you not treat me like an invalid. I am neither old nor senile, and I strongly protest-” he adopted a more theatrical manner as to ensure Frodo did not think him seriously cross, “-I _emphatically_ protest, I say, in the _strongest_ terms, to being treated as such!” It won him a giggle from the lad. And, as had been his goal, Drogo and Primula softened under the tirade. 

“We can’t help being worried for you, Cousin.” Primula said as she organized the wooden place settings, “Of course we know you can take care of yourself but, well, as hobbits who have never been to Bree, we only have your word for the level of danger.”

“And you do tend to fudge the details Cousin.”

“Drogo, my own kin-!”

“It’s true!”

“I say, I say-” Primula interrupted sternly but not loudly, “-arguing faunts will be the last to get a slice of pie. Kiss and make up, boys, or you’ll be out dessert altogether.”

With matching looks of begrudging acceptance, Bilbo and Drogo reached across the picnic blanket to perform the least sincere handshake Buckland had ever seen. Neither of them were going to crack first, however, and had to rely on Frodo’s giggling to break them out of it. The lad had rejoined the picnic blanket and was eyeing the jar of pickled melon with both interest and suspicion. 

“Now that we’re all settled, who would like to start with some vegetables?”

To Bilbo’s surprise, both of Frodo’s hands shot up and began waving. “Do we have tomatoes yet, Mama?”

“No tomatoes yet, love, but remember, they are a fruit.”

Drogo snorted. “Not this again! Prim, love, the Brandybucks have strange ways I admit, but I thought you were on the more civilized side of the debate than-”

Sensing another quibble, Bilbo interjected. “As much as I would love, and I do mean love, to discuss the merits of different… edible… crops, there are hungry hobbits about who would not be denied their Tea.”

The matter was promptly dropped. Prim and Drogo united once more to produce an impressive array of wooden tea things and a well-insulated teapot. The wooden cups, Bilbo imagined, came very much in handy with a young faunt about, and were perfect for a picnic. Despite that, it was an unusual teatime to say the least. When at home in Bag End, Bilbo had a very traditional and respectable set of tea things that he used on a regular basis. Not to say that the picnic Tea was anything less than respectable… Just… not what he was accustomed to. 

It was different when one traveled, of course. Trail food was different and a night under the stars was different. Still, he ventured out of the Shire seldom enough that he was still a bit wary of campfire foods and things caught to be cooked in the wilds. This picnic was a far cry from those sort of meals, but the texture of the wooden cup was strange to be sure. Perhaps Drogo and Primula knew and eccentric Buckland woodcarver…

The little meal was splendid otherwise. His cousins had prepared a mix of fresh and preserved goods as the long winter allowed. The pie was no doubt made from the winter’s preserved apples, but it was still delicious. Primula, after all, surpassed even her father in pastry-making. But, not to be outdone, Drogo had his and Frodo’s scones in the mix, along with savory bread and the collection of jams. The pickled melon, a secret favorite of Bilbo’s, was a one-off. 

In fact, Bilbo was just about to pay the highest compliments to their pantry when a shout from the water interrupted them all. 

“Ho there, land hobbits! Oh, bless me if it isn’t Drogo and Primula! I might’ve guessed you’d one day take our prime mooring spot to yourselves. And without so much as a warning in the post, I dare say-”

“Orladoc Brandybuck, you old rogue! And that had better not be Rufus Burrows in there with you!”

They had been accosted, it seemed, by a Brandybuck and a Burrows in a boat of all things. Well, it could technically be called a boat. It was a rowboat- again only technically, a little more than a coracle- just big enough for the two hobbits inside and presumably room for their fishing gear in the bottom. Frodo’s eyes were wide but unsurprised to see hobbits (of all things!) on the water. Bilbo thought it was unnatural, but supposed Buckland was strange and that they did strange things. Maybe it was Old Forest magic in the well-water, or maybe it was a widespread lack of hobbit-sense in the Brandybuck population....

Rufus Burrows, Bilbo presumed, was at the oars and steered the tub up to the bank near one of the young trees. Frodo leapt up to meet the watercraft but obeyed his parents and stayed well enough away from the water itself. 

“I say, Rufe, if that’s not the biggest frog this side of the Brandywine…” Orladoc exchanged silly faces with Frodo as he hopped out and started for a tree with a length of rope. ‘Rufe’ secured the oars and what looked like a very small catch. 

“I’m not a frog!” Frodo protested. “I’m a sally-mandy! Look!” He bared his teeth and held up his felted friend for the fishermen to examine. 

Both Rufe and Orladoc contorted their faces in mock alarm. “That you are! But please, Mister Sally-mandy, don’t eat us or our little fish here. We’ve got wives and children to feed!”

Without missing a beat, Frodo stroked his chin and pondered. “Well… I won’t eat you today, but you’d better not call me a frog again! Because then I will- I’ll eat you right up!”

They made their sincerest promises as the picnic blanket laughed. Drogo could see Rufe’s wooden bucket would hardly hold more than a few minnows and grinned. “Giving up so soon in the afternoon? What possessed you to set out in the middle of the day anyhow?”

“Oh, we’ve been out since morning.” Orladoc lamented, pausing in his rope-work to put his hands on his hips and shake his head sadly. “I said to Rufe, ‘If the next fish we catch is smaller than your hand again, we call it a day.”

Rufe snorted and shoved the tackle box in Orladoc’s hands. “Barely as big as my palm. It gets a full belly and what are we left with? We’ll hardly be able to take the shame walking through town without so much as a perch between us.”

Orladoc shifted the tackle box to one arm and picked up his fishing pole. “We had a time of it paddling upstream, and then the fish weren’t biting. What’s a hobbit got to do to get an honest meal around here?”

“Grow it and bake it, of course.” Drogo chimed in.

Rufe waved him off before picking up his own fishing pole. “Don’t think we don’t see your own gear right there, Drogo you rascal. If you have better luck than us I’ll eat my hat.”

“Then at least you won’t go hungry!”

Orladoc and Rufe groaned but left in better spirits. Frodo was quite enamored with the boat, but the furtive glances he stole at the picnic blanket let the adults know he remembered his orders. Drogo, Primula, and Bilbo relaxed under the shade of the mooring tree and reminisced about times gone by, the weather, and Shire affairs at large. Bilbo had discovered early on he could sit comfortably as long as he didn’t lean on his left arm. Sometime between waking and sitting he’d done _something_ to get it mad at him. He winced again, shifted his weight, and got back to the topic at hand. 

“It’s well you faunts-” Bilbo started slyly, as turnabout was fair play, “-don’t remember the Fell Winter, and can look upon a generous Shire snowfall with only a fondness.” 

Primula gave him back a wry grin but made no rebuttal. “Well, the Brandywine was far from freezing this year. The winter was long, but we checked it vigilantly. It never showed a sign of icing up, even when we got those few snowfalls around Yule. And then not so much as a flake all the way through Solmath, though it was plenty frigid.”

“We got a fair bit of snow up in Hobbiton, and I had to keep hot chocolate in constant supply for the faunts traipsing up and sledging down the Hill. If I’m not popular with their parents, I daresay they’ll have a few good things to say about me when I’m old and feeble. ‘Good old Mad Baggins’, they’ll say, ‘A curious sort to be sure, but a friend to all faunts and a steady hand pouring our chocolate. Not scandalous at all to attend his parties if I must say so.”

He added the effect of a reedy, overly-prim voice to his fictitious proclamation. Drogo and Primula had a good chuckle along with him. 

“Frodo, love, out of the water.” Prim called to her lad, who was standing with a hand on the base of the mooring tree. He took a good few steps back but gave her a silly frown.

“I was out of the water, Mama, I swear! But it’s chased me away from the boat and now it’s very hard to see if Mister Rufe left worms in it!”

Bilbo made a puzzled face at the lad’s play and turned around to see if his cousins had made heads or tails of it. What he saw wiped his expression clean. Drogo had gone white, and Primula was on her feet in a flash. She dashed over to Frodo and scooped him up before turning back to the blanket which, Bilbo was now starting to notice, was far closer to the bank than it had been when Orladoc and Rufe landed. 

Or rather, the bank was far closer to them.

“The Brandywine’s on the rise.” Drogo got to his feet too and helped Bilbo up. “It’s the season for it to be sure, but we haven’t had rain-”

“They might have had plenty up north. It was hot today, they could've had a melt up Dwaling way...” Primula’s tone was clipped and she spoke quickly. “We’ll get off this… this little peninsula, and-”

“More of a land bridge, my love.” Drogo interrupted. “We’ve been made into an island.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened as he followed Drogo’s gaze. Sure enough, the sloping path they’d followed up to their picnic spot was now quite flooded. Muddy water raced past with a speed that belied more depth than Bilbo wanted to traverse at the moment. 

“What do we do?” Bilbo noticed the alarm in Drogo’s voice, though his cousin did well to disguise it. A change had come over Primula as well, but she was a Brandybuck from the first, and knew the Brandywine as well as any Bucklander. 

“Bilbo, hold Frodo for me, will you?” Primula handed the faunt off and Bilbo held him close. “Drogo, hold my hand while I see how deep it is on the path back. If it’s still shallow enough we can wade back without being swept away. If not, we climb in the tree. I don’t trust the boat to hold all of us.”

Bilbo stepped back to where he supposed the highest point on the picnic spot was. Frodo’s free hand was balled into Bilbo’s cardigan but the lad was surprisingly calm. Perhaps the dangers of the river weren’t real to him yet. Perhaps Drogo and Primula had already explained…

“Drogo, pull me back.” Bilbo’s head snapped up but Primula didn’t seem in any danger. She was up to her waist already and Drogo was helping her back to shore. If Bilbo thought about it, perhaps, the river had risen a little more in the meantime. 

Primula was half soaked but she shook her head. “It’s too far. Without heavy rain, I doubt it’s a proper flood, but water’s no thing to play with. Bilbo, we can load the rowboat with the picnic things and take shelter up in the tree.”

Bilbo nodded and started helping. Together, they started loading things into the basket and then transferring to the rowboat. Bilbo took one wicker handle and winced before Primula took it from him. He had Frodo on his good arm after all. But it seemed they were running out of time. The water was up to their ankles and the island had all but disappeared. Primula started helping Drogo into the tree. 

“Don’t try it, Bilbo!” Prim shook her head at him. “Get into the boat with Frodo. If the branches don’t hold, neither of you can swim for it.”

He nodded with some trepidation and sloshed his way towards the rowboat. Picnic things were strewn about the floor, but the seats were clear. Bilbo set Frodo in the bow seat first before attempting to embark himself. The rowboat was already clear of the river floor and wobbled as he tried to climb over the gunwale. Somewhat clumsily, Bilbo tumbled in. The boat rocked sharply as he pulled himself up by the stern seat. 

“Nothing to worry about, Frodo my lad. Your parents have been expert tree climbers since they were faunts, and there’s no one like a Baggins for steadiness-”

Primula’s scream froze him solid. 

“Bilbo! Bilbo the rope!”

He looked up to see his cousins safely in the boughs of the mooring tree while their very own mooring line slipped its knot. He felt the boat jolt and wiggle underneath his feet as he scrambled from the stern seat and grabbed the rope. If he could get it reeled and coiled, he could throw it to Drogo, he could catch it on a branch or-

His thoughts were interrupted by a swell in the river. He stepped back to catch his balance and instead caught his foot on a wooden cup. Bilbo slipped and fell headfirst into the port gunwale. Darkness swallowed him up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
